Their last day
by princess-arminarlert
Summary: The fever wasn't what told him Jean's fate. Fevers passed. Communicable illness was dangerous, but not a death sentence. While hard to come by, antibiotics were salvageable from most pharmacies provided they hadn't already been picked clean. The festering wound on his shoulder was the damning proof that Jean was to die. He had been bitten at dawn.


Hesitantly, he pressed a quivering hand against Jean's cheek. It was hot.

But the fever wasn't what told him Jean's fate. The festering wound on his shoulder was what sealed it. Fevers passed. Communicable illness was dangerous, but not a death sentence. While hard to come by, antibiotics were salvageable from most pharmacies provided they hadn't already been picked clean.

The wound was a glaring defect. Damning proof that Jean was to die. Soon.

He had been bitten at dawn.

They followed all the rules. Watched each others backs. Avoided infested areas. Made little noise.

They were sloppy when they came to the old inn. It seemed safe. The doors had been shut, barricaded. As they crept up the stairs, seeking out any sign of food or supplies that had been left, they didn't hear any sound. Only when they passed an open door did they realize they were not alone. Jean's strangled cry rang out a moment later.

Armin had shot it. He almost missed in his panic, grazing Jean's cheek.

When it fell, Jean fell with it, gripping his shoulder tightly. His breathing was ragged, and he strained to sit upright. He could only muster a few words as Armin pulled him to his feet, gritting his teeth as he was led to an adjacent room.

There they spent their last day.

First Jean asked to be read to. Armin's shaking hands flipped through the pages of their only book, an old anthology of short stories, finding Jean's favourite among them. He read slowly, his voice wavering and every so often stopping entirely as dry sobs shook his small body. At each pause Jean would pull him close, his good arm winding tightly around Armin's shoulders. He felt hot.

Around noon is when his condition worsened. His skin had begun to lose color around the wound, clotted blood intermingled with puss that seeped from the mangled flesh. Jean's fever worsened. Coughing fits became regular, his sleeve stained red with blood.

They talked for hours. About what they missed about life before this. About the nicer days they had had. About Marco.

Marco had died just over 9 months ago. He was bitten on his right arm. Their group was bigger then, and they felt confident. They tried to amputate the affected arm, but botched it. He almost bled out, and that night he turned. Jean had been alone with him at the time, comforting him and trying to bring down his fever. No one had expected him to turn. Especially not Jean.

They kissed. Some were chaste. Innocent and gentle. Brimming with affection and love. Some were passionate and hasty. As though they were trying to compress the feelings they would soon no longer be able to convey into a single gesture.

"Don't let me become like Marco." Jean finally said, running his tongue over his pale lips. "I don't want to be like that. I don't want to become one of them." His expression had darkened as he spoke, half-lidded eyes staring intently at the cracks in the opposite wall. Armin felt Jean's grip on his hand tighten. "Please..."

Armin bit on his swollen lower lip, chewing idly as he squeezed Jean's hand in return.

"You're asking me... to shoot you..." His voice came out a whisper, raspy and cold. It wasn't so much a question, but an observation. Jean's head, which was rested on Armin's shoulder moved in an almost imperceptible nod.

"I don't want to hurt you." Armin pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. He was shaking. The dehydration that made his lips crack also prevented tears from coming. He was almost thankful for that. It made him feel like he wasn't losing it.

Jean pulled him closer, pressing dry lips against his hollow cheeks. "I never want to hurt you."he smiled weakly at the shiver that his warm breath sent down the other's spine. "You're the same as always. Sensitive." Armin let his knees sink back down, head still hanging low as Jean leaned into him. Wordlessly he pulled Jean closer, until he was nearly in his lap.

"I don't know if I can do it..." He touched his lips to the Jean's sweat slicked forehead, and let them sit there for what seemed like hours.

Jean gripped the thin fabric of the younger boy's cardigan, knuckles going white. His amber eyes where clouded with something. Maybe fear. Despair. Or the sickness that was soon to kill him.

"You have to..." His voice came out dry. A rasp that bounced off the walls of the small room they had barricaded themselves in. It was dank. Reeked of decay and mildew, the scent almost palpable.

"You... no. You are strong. You can fight through it..." He felt himself stumbling over his words, his voice cracking as he fought against the anguish he could feel building up in his chest again.

"I thought you were supposed to be smart" Jean offered, his lips pulling into a weak smile. He pulled himself up, slipping a hand through Armin's hair. His thumb stroked absently at his cheek, a habit he had formed through their countless nights together. It traced along a scar that ran from below his eye down almost to his jaw. That thin white scar, jagged and angular against pale skin, was the only thing that marred his gentle features. The only permanent mark that this world had impressed upon him. Slowly, he brought his forehead to Armin's, eyes shut. "I love you."

He could hear Armin swallow hard, felt as small hands clung to his broad back. "This isn't fair..." Armin tightened his grip on the back of Jean's shirt. "This isn't fair. You are the strong one. You are the one who is supposed to make it. I'm weak. It's not fair. This isn't right..."

As he spoke, his words hushed and quick, he felt hot tears rolling down his dry cheeks. Jean pressed chapped lips against Armin's.

"You're crying..." Jean's voice was husky, breath smelling of sickness. Of death. Armin choked out a strangled sob as Jean brought something cold to his hand. He didn't bother looking. "Don't die... okay? You have to promise me you'll survive... Swear it..." Jean's voice wavered, and he could feel the anxiety and fear building in his stomach.

The blackened wound had spread it's necrotic tendrils down his left arm and up his neck. He felt cold. It dawned on him he was shaking, quivering almost uncontrollably in Armin's small arms. It was pathetic. He could barely control the self-consciousness and humiliation that surged through him as he realized his state. _I'm supposed to protect him._

Armin gripped the gun hesitantly and lifted it. It felt infinitely heavier than he remembered.

"What will I do...?" his voice was nearly inaudible, a faint whisper as he buried his face against Jean's good shoulder.

"You'll live. You'll fight if you have to." Jean gripped Armin's arm, pulling him away to make eye contact. It may be the last time he saw him like this. His pale blue eyes were bright, even in the semi-darkness of their filthy refuge. His tangled blonde hair fell down to frame his delicate face, thin lips were pulled into a tight line. Jean could tell he was fighting back tears. "Find others... don't ever let your guard down... you... have to be doubly careful on your own..." his voice became strained as he continued, and he could feel his death looming.

"W-why do you have to go..."

Jean couldn't find an answer as he pulled Armin close. "Just... press it against my temple... and pull the trigger... I won't feel anything." He could feel his breath hitch as he spoke, hot tears pricking his eyes and spilling down his worn, haggard cheeks. "I love you. Armin. I love you. Fuck. I love you. I am sorry... I have to leave"

"I'm going to survive, Jean..." Armin's voice seemed resolute, despite the sobs that were shaking him.

Jean laid his forehead against Armin's chest. It rose and fell irregularly. He was afraid. Slowly he let out an even breath as a cool metal circle pressed against his right temple. "Armin... Never let yourself think you're weak." his voice was only a hoarse whisper through clenched teeth.

Armin squeezed his eyes shut as the gunshot filled the room. He felt Jean's hand slid down his chest limply, any energy left within him gone. Futilely, he smacked a hand over his mouth as a scream

tore from is throat. His palm pressed firmly against his lips, holding back another cry.

For what felt like an eternity he leaned against the wall in silence, clinging to the quickly cooling body. His arms wrapped tightly around Jean, shaking and numb as he whispered against the boy's sand coloured hair.

"I love you. I love you. I love you."

He repeated the phrase ad nauseam, until the syllables spilling out seemed to blend together into a single word and lose all meaning. Eventually the tears stopped coming.

Finally he pulled himself to his knees, sliding Jean to the dirty floor. His eyes were shut, looking almost blissful. Were it not for the hair matted with gore and blood along the left side of his head, he could have looked like he was sleeping. Armin's breath caught in his throat as he wrapped his warm, pink hand around Jean's cold one. Had he any remaining energy, he would have wept again.

Wordlessly, Armin shrugged out of his cardigan. The right side was stained darkly with blood, an angry reminder of the bullet he had spent into Jean's skull. Quietly he slipped the soft blue fabric over Jean, covering his torso like a blanket. He leaned foreward, placing a kiss on Jean's eyelids, one on his forehead. Finally, he brushed his lips against Jean's. They were cold. Still.

"You used to love this jacket... didn't you." His voice sounded hoarse and foreign. Like it wasn't his own. _"The blue matches your eyes..." _His tone fell down an octave, mimicking the other's.

Pulling Jean's satchel into has lap, he rooted through it, grabbing important supplies and a thick black hoodie. He buried his face in it, shoulders shaking. He didn't even have the will to cry, only inhale deeply, filling his lungs with rank air and the scent of the jacket. It smelled old. A dry and stale scent that carried with it a familiar smell that was unidentifiable but uniquely Jean. Dozens of nights spent pressed against Jean's chest had left him with an unshakeable memory of that scent.

"I'm going to survive..." His words were muffled against the worn black fabric of the jacket. He removed his face from it, gazing listlessly at the familiar stitching before pulling it over his head. One arm slipped into it, then another. It was big on him, swaths of thick black swallowing his small body. But it felt warm. It was tangible proof that Jean had existed. Shakily he stood, swallowing hard as he pulled his now heavier backpack on.

"I'm going to survive."


End file.
